


Coffee Stains

by Makalaure



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Family, Fluff, Multi, Racism, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 09:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18029336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makalaure/pseuds/Makalaure
Summary: A collection of one-shots.1. Jason helps put on Dick's makeup before an undercover mission.2. Bruce really should be angry. He should.3. Jason is caught cooking in the kitchen.4. Letters from Bruce Wayne.5. "You speak English really well, by the way."6. He still talks to their portraits, tells them about the kids – and isn't that a funny term, 'the kids', plural.7. Jason receives an unexpected message.8. Dick starts to say, "It wasn't my fault," decides he is exhausted and his split lip hurts too much, and stops.9. Welcome to fatherhood, thinks Jim, droll, taking out a cigarette and firing it up.10. AU. Jason Todd was the first Robin. Dick Grayson has recently replaced him as the second. Tumblr shenanigans ensue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am choosing not to warn for individual chapters, but please note that I will sometimes write about topics that might be upsetting for some people. 
> 
> http://lilaclotuses.tumblr.com

Dick is outrageously straight-faced for someone in that get-up. "Appropriate?" he says.

For the mission, perhaps. Heavy, gold-plated necklace. Matching bracelets. Thin chain draped around his left ankle. The 'clothes' make Jason want to put his head in his hands: a slip of translucent, periwinkle cloth fastened with a belt around his hips, asymmetrical and ending at his knees. The only thing preserving what's left of his modesty is a type of underclothing in the same colour.

Jason wonders how Bruce feels about sending his precious golden boy off to do a sordid job like this – Tim and Damian are too young, and Jason doesn't fit the type this club hires. He can't pretend he doesn't hate someone if he does, can't pretend to agree when he disagrees.

He doesn't comment on any of that. Their client – a Mr. Smith – is going to take one look at Dick and run screaming. (A client who is almost certainly running a brothel of unwilling boys instead of a 'massage service', as he claims. That he frequents this shady club every Saturday is only lucky; most men like him avoid being predictable.)

Jason grunts. "For a performer, you're shit with makeup." Dick's got on fuchsia lipstick and a truly tragic pink-orange blush that both clash with his skin tone, and his cat-eye looks like a toddler drew it on in crayon. "Come here," says Jason, "and bring me the wipes and makeup bag."

Dick grimaces, but does as told. Jason takes the wipes and begins to mop the colour off Dick's face, tries not to feel horrified at the _amount_ of makeup coming off. Dick squirms, and Jason says, "Hold still," and grasps his chin with his free hand. It's smooth. He can smell the light, perfumed oil on Dick's neck: sandalwood, and beneath that, something like cloves. He is suddenly worri – _anxious_ – that this mission will go pear-shaped. Much as his resentment for Dick still simmers beneath his skin, he hates the idea of someone putting their hands on him, of Dick going along because it's required, not because he wants to.

He does not voice this: they are both grown men, and Dick will grow angry if Jason questions his decision now. And Jason isn't in the mood for one of Dick's epic tantrums.

"Hey," says Dick, warm breath feathering over Jason's skin, and Jason realises he's been standing there with the used wipes in his hand, still holding Dick's chin.

(He is struck with a memory, then, of tottering after Dick in the manor. Dick, attempting to make nice after two months of silence following a screaming match with Bruce. Dick, showing him how to stick a landing after swinging from the uneven bars. Dick, dabbing the blood off Jason's chin with an old hanky after Jason predictably failed.)

Jason lets go, disposes of the wipes, and rummages through the makeup bag till he finds his weapons of choice and sticks them into the front pocket of his trousers. Dick's lips are dry and chapped, so Jason leads him to the bathroom and uses one of the spare toothbrushes to gently buff them, and then applies a balm.

"How do _you_ know so much about makeup?" Dick asks, and it's still surreal, how his voice isn't as deep as Jason's. Somewhere in Jason's mind, Dick is still supposed to be the _bigger_ brother, blocky and towering. But he isn't. He is strong, but he's all lean muscle, and – here's the kicker – a couple of inches shorter than Jason.

"Shut up," says Jason, and applies a base and then the lipstick itself, a matte, dusky rose. He's got steady hands and a good eye for aesthetics, and likes the idea of working with textiles and makeup. Always had. The boys at school had made sure Jason never talked about it. It wasn't a big deal – he'd been more enamoured with literature, anyway. "No blush," he says, and Dick raises an eyebrow. "This isn't the damn stage. And it looks cheap."

"I'm a little impressed you know the difference between 'cheap' and 'not cheap'."

Jason ignores him and shifts his attention to the eyes, using a subtle bronze shadow. He can't do winged liner for shit, but he has a better idea.

"What are you doing?" says Dick suspiciously, when Jason fishes into his pocket.

"Putting on kohl," returns Jason. "Don't move or I'll poke your eye out."

"If you make me look like a raccoon, so help me God – "

"Hey, I want that info as much as you do. Now pipe down so I can make you look like you're fresh off the market for some sleazy perv."

It's harder than it looks, and Jason has to stop several times to make sure he's doing it right. In the end, he adds a dash of mascara, and steps back to admire his handiwork. Good. Sultry. Dick's got the looks for this – handsome, but edging into androgynous, his curls just this side of long, his lips the shape of an arched bow. His dark eyes are wide. Anticipatory.

Jason pulls back. "All done," he says, turning around and putting the makeup back in the bag. He needs to give his hands something to do, something to cover the urge to let them shake. He sits on a creaking stool, willing the strength back in his legs.

There is a shuffle, and then Dick is behind him, saying, "I think you should do this too. I could use a partner instead of someone lurking in the background."

That startles a laugh out of Jason. "Not sure you noticed, Dickiebird, but I'm not the kind of guy people want to see trussed up in silk and jewellery." There are days when he is still shocked at his own size, at finding he has grown into his too-big feet and hands. He bumps his head on doorframes and sits on barstools only to find, to his irritation and chagrin (but also giddy pride), that they are too small for him. He'd put on so much muscle so rapidly since coming out of the pit that it almost hadn't seemed like a natural development.

Oh, he knows he is not unhandsome: he's caught people leering at him, at his powerful thighs, at his corded forearms, at the arc of his back. But creeps like the ones Dick is planning to seduce information out of? They don't want someone who looks like he could rip your spine out of your mouth with his bare hands. It isn't just the muscle, either; Jason isn't _dainty_ , not like Dick or Tim, who have cute little noses and slender hips and jawlines that are more delicate than angular. Add his resting bitchface to the mix and it's enough of a 'touch me and I'll kill you' look that most people avoid Jason on sight.

"They're idiots," says Dick quietly, and Jason stills. Faint sounds of the club drift through the door. The rustle of cloth. The buzz of voices. The dull clack of shoes. He is lost at sea, a boat without a rudder. "Jason." The word is a sigh, a soft wind through dying leaves. Dick's hand – callused; nothing they can do about that – grasps Jason's shoulder and turns him around. Heat. Nerves. On Dick's throat, there is a touch of glitter. Bruce's first son, leaning up, his eyes half-lidded, his fingers coming to tangle in Jason's hair. There is something indecent about it, all this beauty, all this earnestness and hope, wrapping itself around Jason. Since coming back, Jason has seen himself as...not dirty, exactly, but sullied. Too hard and unforgiving for the bright and pointless idealism of Batman's children.

He realises, though he had known it before, that he _wants_. He wants to pull Dick onto his lap, tug at his hair, lick into his mouth till the rouge is smeared all around it and he's cut his tongue on Dick's teeth, till he can taste the applause and the laughter and the swing of the trapeze.

He turns his head aside.

Dick blinks at him, lips still pursed and inviting. He doesn't look hurt, even if he looks somewhat taken aback. But he _is_ a performer, and performers are just professional liars.

"Your makeup," Jason says, his voice a touch rough. It is a flimsy cover-up, one he knows Dick sees through.

Dick's mouth curls in a smile. It is guarded, but not without affection. "Always thinking about the work," he says, turning to head to the door. "You're a lot more like Bruce than you realise."

Jason opens his mouth to articulate exactly why he's not, his temper flaring, but can't refute Dick without admitting he'd been bullshitting. Dick gives him a close, unyielding look, clearly aware of what he's doing. Jason feels like he's twelve again, apprehensive of what his predecessor thinks of him. But that's silly. He's not even part of the family anymore. Bruce does not seem to wish for reconciliation, and Jason will not accept Dick's overly cheerful attempts at it. Let the Batman fix what he broke – it is not Jason's fight.

At length, Dick says, "Come on. Follow me," and Jason gets to his feet.

It will do, for now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce really should be angry. He should.

Bruce's favourite couch is occupied.

He should be peeved. No one is allowed to sit on that couch, single-seater, worn leather, smelling of nothing and no one. It is the one his father used while reading fairy tales and ghost stories to Bruce in his grainy baritone. Bruce didn't really pay attention to the stories (though he did at other times, in other spaces); he just liked the sound of his father's voice. It seemed more a grandfather's voice, even then – the sort you'd associate with old men with a twinkle in their eye and the scent of tobacco in their tweed jackets.

After his father died, Bruce had gone to sit on it, to recall the memory, but couldn't bring himself to – the couch felt like too sacred a thing, and in his experience, sacred things were not meant to be touched. Instead, he plopped on the ground, as he always used to, and stared and stared at the couch as if his father would reappear in it and open one of the books from the wenge shelves. He had sat that way for hours, until he felt he had committed it to memory, every crease, every crack, every stain too stubborn for Alfred to clean off. It didn't seem like a comfortable couch, too low, too stiff.

Bruce does not bring guests into this little room, warm and cozy as it is with its working fireplace and stained glass window. He doesn't want to risk someone trying to sit on the couch and him having to explain that, no, actually, such a thing is not permitted. There is no polite way to do it without going into an uncomfortably intimate explanation.

Right now, the couch is decidedly not empty, and Bruce should be in a dilemma. Should be furious, or at least annoyed, that someone is getting their dead skin and bodily oils all over it. That someone is _drooling_ on it.

Instead, he pads over and brushes the glossy dark hair off the intrepid offender's forehead. There is a shuffle, and a frown, and a bright blue eye is cracked open. "Bruce?" mumbles Dick.

"Hi, kiddo," says Bruce. He had intended to sound disapproving, but his voice is soft. Dick is still rather new to this house, still distressed and angry at being torn away from the only home he had ever known. Bruce had never thought any little feet would walk the halls of Wayne manor after him. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

Dick's eye drops shut again. He pushes himself up, wiping his mouth, and, without even looking at Bruce, holds his arms out. Every time Bruce thinks the boy cannot be more brazen, more fearless, he is proven wrong. He is hopelessly charmed by the trust Dick has in him. "Want me to take you to your room?" Bruce asks. It is late, after all – dinner is long over and the stars are out.

Dick shakes his head, lets out a whine, arms still reaching for Bruce. Well. Who is Bruce to refuse him? He scoops Dick up, sits on the couch himself – it is warm – and settles him onto his lap. Dick smells of fresh laundry and a bit like the hot chocolate Alfred had prepared for him; there is a little streak of it at the corner of his mouth. He curls up, his cold bare feet leaving dirt marks on Bruce's trousers, and his head lolls onto Bruce's chest. Soon, his breathing grows slow and even. 

Bruce had been right – the couch is uncomfortable. He will get a sore back if he sits in it for too long.

He looks down at Dick's tiny form, and doesn't move.

At some point, he is pulled into dreams, and when he wakes, the light of the rising sun is seeping through the window, and Dick is still snoring softly, a warm, solid weight in his arms.

Bruce decides he could use this couch again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason is caught cooking in the kitchen.

Jason must be cold, with his grubby feet bare on the stool, but he doesn't shiver.

He stirs the contents of the pot with the air of a boy much older than he is, with single-minded determination and care, though precariously, as if afraid of burning it. He shows no signs of awareness of Bruce's presence at the kitchen door. Even through Bruce's blocked nose, the food smells good: he gets a whiff of garlic, onion, and oregano. All thoughts of the Earl Grey he'd come down to make are forgotten.

Bruce is, for a moment, impressed, and then his nails dig into his palms in anger. Jason would have had to cook for himself even when he was sick, because of an addicted mother and an absent father. Bruce has never wanted more to sweep the boy in a hug and pepper his hair with kisses, and has to remind himself that he is not Jason's father, that such a display of affection would be presumptuous and might even upset Jason. He does not know what traumas are lurking beneath those wary, glittering eyes.

"Jason," he calls, making the boy start and turn around. "There's no need for that. Alfred is paid to cook for us, you know." He tries to put some humour in his hoarse voice, but it falls flat, and he can't even hope that Jason hasn't noticed. (Jason notices entirely too many things.)

Jason looks at the simmering pot, then at Bruce, and says, "Is it...bad?"

"Huh?"

"Is my cooking bad? Have I done something wrong?"

" _What_? No, no." This is not going the way Bruce had intended. (And isn't that often the way of it with Jason?) The last thing the boy needs is to feel unappreciated. Bruce almost says, "You might hurt yourself," but quickly discards the idea; Jason is _Robin_. He spends his nights disregarding the police and punching perps instead of sleeping like normal boys. Bruce plasters a smile on his face to hide his unease, and ventures, "What is it? It smells delicious."

Jason brightens, and Bruce's stomach drops right to his shoes. Jason is so _easy_ to please. He's a little rough around the edges, a bit contrary in a way that Dick had rarely dared to be, but just a kind word, a smidgen of interest, and the kid's got hearts in his eyes.

"Chicken stew," says Jason. "Wanna see?"

"You're a much better cook than I am," puts in Bruce, and ambles over to the stove. It looks just as good as it smells, with bits of chicken and carrots and boiled eggs in its thick, creamy depths. "What's the occasion?"

"I made it for you." Jason says it the way he would say 'my costume is red and yellow'.

Bruce is floored. "I... _what_?"

"You're sick, and Alf's out in the garden, and I always like stew when I'm sick, so..." Jason shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant, though there is a faint tinge on his cheeks.

Bruce is filled with a sudden, aching love. He doesn't think it can all fit in his chest, feels like he might split at the seams. His head spins. He has never been gladder that he took Jason in – not even for his own selfish reasons, but just for giving this boy a home, a family, somewhere he can feel safe.

"This is wonderful, Jason," he says, feeling his eyes crinkle with the stretch of his smile. "Thank you."

Jason beams at him, his shoulders hiking shyly.

Bruce is struck with an unexpected realisation: he desperately wants Jason to stay. He'd fired Dick (permanently, this time), and one day he'll have to let Jason go too.

The thought comes like breathing with broken ribs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters from Bruce Wayne.

01/05

~~Dear Jason,~~

~~Your mother~~   ~~I know it's too l~~   ~~I wish~~

*******

02/05

~~Dear Jason,~~

~~I can't look at people with their kids anym~~

*******

20/05

Dear Jason,

I carry your photo with me, on missions. ~~I was unworthy of~~ I keep wondering what you would look like if you were older. Alfred used to say you'd look like a movie star and girls would be hanging off your arms. I always thought you liked boys.

Yours,

Bruce

*******

25/05 

~~Jason,~~

~~Hudson University recently introduced a study abroad course for Foreign Languages students. I'm sure you'd have loved the idea. But I think you'd have studied Literature all the same.~~

~~Yours,~~

~~Bruce~~

*******

14/06

Dick misses you.

*******

17/06

Jason,

I keep finding your things everywhere. Your T-shirt got mixed with my clothes. Alfred tells me I should give them away but I can't.

Bruce 

*******

21/07

Jay,

I hope you liked the flowers. Red is your favourite colour, right? I'll read to you next time. Pride and Prejudice. I know, you've read it six times already, but I haven't gotten around to it yet. Thought we could do something together.

Yours,

Bruce

*******

28/07

Hey Jay,

I was supposed to read to you, but there was a lot of rain today. You'd be so offended if I got your book all wet. Next time.

Bruce

*******

16/08

~~My dear Jason,~~

~~Happy sixteenth birthd~~

*******

30/09

~~I can't think of you without~~

*******

05/03

Dear Jason,

Tim's a great kid. I can't help but imagine what a wonderful older brother you'd be. He's so eager to learn, like you and Dick, but so different too, a sombre little thing who finds no thrill in the work, just does it because he thinks he has to. You know what I mean. He reminds me of Alfred – he's always right and he knows it. You'd like him.

~~Dick could use some help. Just imagining you two as a team is~~

Bruce

*******

27/04

~~Dear Jason~~

~~Jason,~~

~~Robin~~

~~You were meant for~~ ~~I had to put away your photograph because~~ ~~My anger is~~

~~I hate~~

~~I hope they have a big library up in~~

~~How afraid were you when~~

~~I want to scold you for dating too early and drinking too much coffee and smoking too many cigarettes. I want to worry about you. I want to feel relief when you come back home.~~

~~I considered a Lazarus~~ ~~I don't recognize myse~~

~~Today, Tim dropped his energy drink all over the~~

~~I nearly went to church and confessed~~

~~Dick poured us all a scotch and gave Tim a root beer. When we toasted, I couldn't say your name.~~

*******

02/12

Jason,

We're having a dinner on the 24th at 7 p.m. We would like for you to join us. Damian doesn't celebrate Christmas, but he's agreed to be with us all the same. Dick says it's important for all of us to spend an evening together, and I agree.

Cordially,

Bruce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason Todd's death date is 27/04.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, for real. There is no Ian Wayne in this goddamn house.

"You have a really strong accent," is the first thing Andrew says to him. They are trudging back to the school building after PT, jerseys clinging to their backs with sweat. Andrew is tall and broad for his age, with fair hair and crooked front teeth, like a roof.

Damian does not understand the point of that statement. What is he expected to do about it? He can fake a Gotham accent, but it gives him a headache – and he has no reason to, if he is not going undercover. "I grew up in Pakistan," he offers. He will say Lahore if asked where – it is his go-to response, since, "I was trained by assassins in Nanda Parbat," is neither wise nor a good opener for normal conversation. Damian is trying hard to be normal, after being on the receiving end of various long-winded lectures by his father, Grayson, and, embarrassingly, Jon.

"Oh," says Andrew, with a wide smile and an eager gleam in his pale blue eyes, "that's fascinating." Then he tilts his head to the side. "You speak English really well, by the way."

 _Probably better than you do_ , Damian does not say.

They end up talking in the hallway again after class. Andrew is a dedicated student – prodigal, really – and a good athlete, and Damian finds himself spending more and more time with him. Jon is still the person he trusts the most at school, but he is a few years below Damian, and their schedules clash more often than not. Andrew is not his substitute – Damian does not like him nearly as much as he likes Jon – but he is...something. Damian is trying to be friendly, for the sake of his father's peace of mind.

And it is, Damian privately admits, a pleasure to speak to someone who appreciates good writing.

Andrew has a habit of calling Damian 'Ian' (he seems to think it is affectionate, but Damian just finds it annoying), and after the first few times, Damian stopped telling him to use his actual name. It is a small sacrifice for being able to listen to someone analyse Malory in a way that doesn't make Damian want to stab himself in the eye.

Today, they are sitting on the stairs by the soccer field during lunch break, and Damian chatters at length about Jamil Ahmad, Jabbour Douaihy, and other authors he thinks are criminally underrated and should have had their own memes by now. (His mother had encouraged him to be a voracious reader – to her, an uncultured assassin is just a brute. He could recite Rumi backwards, if you asked him to. Not that he would do something so undignified.)

He is only halfway through his rant when Andrew pipes, "But don't you read, like, real literature?"

Damian frowns. No one has accused him of having poor taste in books before (though he _has_ been accused of being a snob – by Todd, no less). Hasn't Andrew been listening? He had just told him about Jeet Thayil. His _Narcopolis_ is dreamlike and brave and brutal, lightning through a cloud of smoke; there isn't a boring sentence in it. Damian says so, uncharacteristic nerves making him unable to filter the earnestness from his voice. He had enjoyed the novel so much he had insisted that Todd read it just so he could talk with someone about it. Grayson had teased him about it for weeks.

"No, I mean, like," Andrew gestures vaguely with his hand, "European literature. Kant. Hegel. Don't libraries in Pakistan stock them?" His voice is soft, crooning, like he is soothing a wounded animal.

Something hot curls in Damian's chest. Words, angry and indignant and scathing, clutter up on his tongue so fast he can't arrange them coherently, and behind his eyes is an outbreak of ragehurtshame. He doesn't say any of the things he wants to say, because the bell rings and Andrew jumps to his feet, says, "Later, Ian," and dashes off across the field, as though he had not just stripped the skin off Damian's back.

Damian stands up on shaking legs, cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts as loudly as he can: "My name is Damian al Ghul Wayne _,_ you _illiterate freak_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Various sources online say that Nanda Parbat is in Tibet, but the name itself is based on Nanga Parbat, which is in Pakistan. So I've gone with that.
> 
> Also, I just really like the idea of Jason and Damian bonding over books.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He still talks to their portraits, tells them about the kids – and isn't that a funny term, 'the kids', plural.

Bruce opens the kitchen door, blinks, rubs his eyes, and looks again.

All four of his boys are lounging at the table, in various states of alertness. He has no idea how they got here, but by now he is used to them sliding in and out of his house as if it were a free hotel – especially since he himself told them they could. There are cups and saucers and a half-finished bowl of butter popcorn between them. Bruce realises tiredly that, while he can't see the contents of their cups, he already knows what is in them.

Tim drinks the same black coffee Bruce does – just a lot more of it. Dick likes his with a worrying amount of cream and brown sugar, topped with chocolate powder. Jason does not often drink coffee – he prefers an English Breakfast or Earl Grey with a spot of milk. Damian is too young for caffeine and turns his nose up at it anyway, opting for vanilla rooibos. He is curled against Dick, his mug pressed to his lips even though he isn't drinking, his eyes half-lidded with sleep – it will be dawn in a couple of hours.

Jason and Dick weren't even in Gotham the day before. "Why," says Bruce, "are you all here." It is a pointless question. They are here, and they will not leave till they want to, and a part of Bruce, a part he does not wish to listen to, wants them to stay. If his parents could see him now. He still talks to their portraits, tells them about the kids – and isn't that a funny term, 'the kids', plural _._ This... _thing_ is imperfect, nothing out of a glossy magazine or corny romance novel – just him and an ageing butler and a motley selection of children unrelated by blood.

Dick grins and takes Damian's cup, setting it on the table. "We're telling ghost stories."

"...Ghost stories?" echoes Bruce. "We fight criminals like Crane and you think you need _ghost stories_ for kicks?"

"I knew this would turn into a lecture," says Jason, scarfing down a handful of popcorn. Some of it drops onto his already stained _Wuthering Heights_ T-shirt.

Dick suddenly brightens. "Hey, I bet Bruce has good stories!" He sits up, making Damian whine and nuzzle into his side. Bruce feels a stab of tenderness, and resists the urge to scoop Damian into his arms and tuck him into bed, resists the embarrassing mental onslaught of _mine, mine, mine_. "I do not," Bruce says, "know ghost stories. Everything can be explained by science and investigation. Eventually."

"Killjoy," mutters Jason.

Tim just smiles dopily, and giggles. He's got impressive bags under his eyes, and if he's slept more than eight hours in the past three days, Bruce will eat his hat. One day that boy is going to fall asleep during patrol and break his neck, or someone else's. " _Why_ are none of you in bed?"

"You ruined our circadian cycles," Jason deadpans, at the same time Tim says, "Damian couldn't sleep."

"I will end you, Drake," says Damian, voice muffled by Dick's pajama top. Dick ruffles his hair, earning little more than a weak growl. Damian doesn't even let _Bruce_ touch him like that.

Tim tilts his head. "Why'd you come down here, Bruce?" he asks, as if this isn't Bruce's family home where he can go wherever he pleases.

"I wanted coffee." Which he still hasn't gotten, and now he's not sure he needs; the conversation has woken him up plenty. He remembers, nigh on seventeen years ago (he doesn't feel old, but he does feel aged), when it was just him and Dick, and sometimes, when Dick couldn't sleep, they would sit together in the kitchen like they are all gathered now, talking in low voices over hot drinks. "Anyway," he says gruffly, "see you later."

The years have made him no less wooden than before; he knows they understand. He is, now as ever, afraid of intimacy, of losing those he grows close to – and somewhere, he believes that he is...unworthy of their affections. It is a thought he would rather not dwell on. From the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Dick's eyes grow wistful, and his thumb stroke over Damian's shoulder.

Tim mumbles something incoherent. He staggers over to Bruce, grasps his hand, drags him to the table, and makes him sit. Bruce is too surprised to dig in his heels. Tim collapses back in his chair, shoves the popcorn bowl in Bruce's direction, and says, "Ghost stories. C'mon."

Bruce glances up. Dick is smiling softly. Damian is asleep. Jason's eyes are on the table, his hand gripping his mug, a scowl on his face; God, Bruce has missed him, missed his cockiness and stubbornness and boundless compassion for the poor and the weak and the powerless. He still has the adoption papers.

At length he leans forward and steeples his fingers. Tim raises his eyebrows expectantly. Bruce clears his throat, looks at each boy in turn, and says, "There's no such thing as ghosts, you superstitious, cowardly lot."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason receives an unexpected message.

Jason's phone lights up minutes after he takes care of an organisation dealing drugs to kids in Seattle. He frowns; his men don't disturb him in the middle of work unless they have to relay important information, and while he is technically finished here, it is a bit soon to bombard him with messages.

Bracing himself for an oncoming shitstorm, he takes a look at his screen. Unknown number – he memorises those of the few people he hires, every time they destroy their phones and buy new ones. Clamping down on the growing pit of dreadexcitementanger in his stomach (Black Mask? Some other crime lord offering him a deal or threatening to hang his skin in a public place?), he opens it, and stares.

_Silverfish ate your books. Will have to throw them. B thought you'd want to know._

_D_

Vaguely, Jason registers that he knows what 'B' and 'D' stand for, but the static in his head won't let him process the text. He stands there for a whole minute, like a fucking idiot, and then shoves his phone back in his pocket, shoots his grapple gun, and swings away. The rage is unexpected. He cannot even pinpoint the reason. Why now? Why something so small? (Significant to Jason, maybe, a thousand years ago). 

He didn't even know Bruce had kept his books. He had thought they'd been cast away, along with all his clothes and science projects and certificates and magazines meant for people his current age.

When he reaches Gotham, a day later, he plans to shower and change and grab a burger from a joint near one of his safehouses. He ends up at Wayne manor, his finger hovering above the doorbell. Before he can push it, the door swings open noiselessly to reveal Alfred wearing a pristine suit and a strange expression in which he is smiling with his sharp brown eyes even though his mouth is severe. Jason had forgotten how much he'd missed that face.

"I assume this is about your books?" Alfred says.

Jason shrugs. It is a juvenile, inadequate gesture. He does not even know why he is here. His books are eaten through. He can't read them anymore. He barely gets the time these days anyway. When he does, he just opens his well-thumbed copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ instead of starting on the endless list of books he promised himself he would get through.

Alfred ushers him inside and makes him sit at the dining table. All this... _consideration_ is making him uncomfortable. And it _is_ considerate, the kind of thing you'd do for a son you care about and are regularly in touch with. Hello, boy, your favourite things that you no longer use are crumbling and I need to chuck them, sorry about that. Jason wonders what Bruce wants from him.

Before he can ponder that further, the door bursts open and Dick bounds in, a plate of cookies in his hands.

"Oh my God," says Jason, looking at the ceiling. Of _course_ Dick would be here to give him a migraine. That's Dick's entire purpose in life. 

"Jaybird!" Dick chirps, and puts the plate down in front of him. "Here about the books? We didn't want to throw them without letting you know. Bruce still has all your old stuff. Hasn't given away a single pen."

That is...surprising. So much so that Jason refuses to think about it, refuses to sink into that emotional hole right now. He grunts and shoves a cookie in his mouth. Chocolate chip, crumbly and light and buttery. The flavour punches him with nostalgia – he'd adored them, back then. He'd never had cookies on a regular basis before, but Alfred's were obviously the best in Gotham, possibly the world. He'd told Alfred so. "What's the difference? I can't use them now. Burn 'em, if you want." The thought of burning his collection, including some first editions and schoolbooks scribbled with notes, makes his chest squeeze unpleasantly, but he'll be damned before he admits that.

"You staying for dinner?" says Dick.

Jason blinks. "Uh." He hadn't considered it. The last time he'd had dinner here, he hadn't even grown into his limbs. "Does Bruce want something?" He has to know. Bruce doesn't just reach out to him for platitudes. It's probably some dangerous work that the others either aren't available for or aren't worth risking for.

"No?" says Dick, furrowing his brow. "Why, he say something?"

"No, uh...forget it." He almost asks where Bruce is, but then decides against it. He does not need the inevitable argument that occurs when the two of them are in the same room. He takes another cookie, almost considers slipping it in his pocket for later. Old habit. He makes himself bite it. "I think I'll go."

Dick rubs the back of his neck. Jason can see the cogs turning in his head, the manipulative bastard. At length Dick turns those big dark eyes on him and says quietly, "Alfred misses you."

Manipulative. Bastard. "That's dirty, Grayson."

Dick smirks. "It's true, though."

"Oh, fuck off."

"So you're staying?"

Jason wants to run. He knows this is a bad idea. Spending time at Wayne manor, reminding himself of the stability he no longer has – of the family he no longer has. This is going to end in tears. Or someone with a batarang in their throat. Again. He takes a deep breath. "When is Bruce back?"

"Not till tomorrow." 

"Then I'll stay."

Dick beams, and Jason swears he can see sparkles around his head like they're in some freaking cartoon and Dick is the paragon of incorruptible pure pureness. He opens his mouth to tell Dick exactly where he can stuff it, but Alfred walks in with a tray with a pot of tea and three willow-pattern cups. "I thought," he says, setting the tray down, "that I would join you boys. It is my break, after all." He gives Jason a smile, a real smile, affectionate and embarrassingly earnest. His hands are wrinkled and spotted, the veins standing out starkly. Jason looks away and clears his throat.

His phone buzzes, and he takes it out of his pocket. A message. From Dick. Slanting Dick a look, he opens it.

_He hasn't sat with us for tea in years._


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick starts to say, "It wasn't my fault," decides he is exhausted and his split lip hurts too much, and stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Haly's Circus toured America, but I like to think they were a French act. I don't know why, but I've always thought of Dick as being born somewhere in Europe. 
> 
> Various sources online say that Nanda Parbat is in Tibet, but the name itself is based on Nanga Parbat, which is in Pakistan. So I've gone with that.

Before they go to America, Dick is asked if he is afraid he will get shot. Falguni is a contortionist, and she eyes Dick with a kind of darkbitter amusement, twirling her hair with a finger. _You know, since we look like this._ His father tries to mitigate the effect, holding up his hands and saying, _Gun ownership is down by quite a bit. A lot of people only keep them to hunt wild animals._

Falguni barks a laugh. _Then I guess we're wild animals_ , she says.

***

There are no guns involved.

A man cuts his parents' ropes. Dick thinks a million things in those few, dragging seconds and can't remember any of them. People in the audience are gasping and pointing and distantly, over his own screaming, he hears a man say, _It's part of the act. It's got to be._

Daniel Poteet, one of the roustabouts, who periodically makes up scary stories at Dick's insistence, holds him tight to his sweat-stained chest and keeps saying, _Don't look, kid. Whatever you do, don't look._ It makes no difference; he has already seen. Their skulls are caved in, their skin ashy-white, their blood mingling with the soil.

He doesn't feel anything. He knows they are dead, but he doesn't feel anything.

***

Dick is dumped in what the social worker calls a youth centre. Many of the children in their mid to late teens are there for committing 'adult' crimes – everything from rape to murder. It is more like a prison than a home for displaced children, which is what it is supposedly meant to be. (During the day they are made to wear hideous green shirts with 'GOTHAM' printed across them.) Dick doesn't really understand any of it. He's eight.

The inmates here do not like him. Whether it is because he is foreign, or Rom, or cries a lot, or speaks shaky English, he cannot tell. He is other to them – that is all they require. On the first day, he is shoved to his knees. On the second, he is dragged out of his bed and beaten, in a way that is both gleeful and methodical, and the guards have to pull the boys off before he is killed. On the third, the social worker tells him, while he is in the infirmary, to stop making trouble. Dick starts to say, "It wasn't my fault," decides he is exhausted and his split lip hurts too much, and stops. The people who work there keep promising him a new family, but even he is not naive enough to believe it will happen. He does not want a new family. He wants to go home.

 _Falguni_ , he thinks grimly, as he clambers down a drainpipe to get away from the centre. He has forgotten his shoes, but he is cowed by the idea of going back for them and getting caught. _You were wrong. No one's shot me._

***

(He goes back anyway, because a mountain of a man dressed as a bat tells him to, while he cries and cries and attempts not to slide off a roof.

And it is cold and he has no shoes.)

***

A week later, they tell him to pack his bag. Bruce Wayne, a man of obscene wealth and dubious reputation, wants him.

They do not ask him if he wants Bruce Wayne. He voices this, but is not really paying attention to the social worker's response. Too overwhelmed. Too confused. He catches something about him being lucky.

He is ushered into a fancy black car. The driver, Alfred, is taciturn, the skin around his eyes pinched, like he is tolerating a bad smell. Dick looks at him. "You do not like children?" he says.

"I don't _seek_ their company, if that's what you mean."

***

Two mornings later, Dick wanders into the dining hall, where the table is set with toast and eggs and juice. Bruce is not there. Dick is starting to think he is hardly ever in the house, and wonders, not for the first time, if he is only some kind of Christmas puppy to him. To Bruce's credit, he hasn't taken any selfies with Dick and posted them to social media to broadcast how generous he is. It is one of those things that irk him, those photographs of clean well-dressed people smiling like saviours amid a huddle of children in rags.

As he takes his seat by the head of the table, he notices a newspaper lying on the table, front page facing up: _PLAYBOY BRUCE WAYNE TAKES IN GYPSY CHILD FROM CIRCUS._

Dick does not eat breakfast that day.

***

It seems like everyone at his school read the headlines those weeks ago. "Ah," says the homeroom teacher, adjusting her spectacles, "Richard Grayson?" She enunciates the words as if she does not believe that is his name. Dick ignores it. He trudges through classes, struggles with everything except maths and physical education. Alfred's private tutoring has helped, but Dick is still thrown by teachers who talk too quickly.

At break time he is cornered in a hallway by two boys in jerseys. This is less easy to ignore. Dick has no idea why the people here are so fascinated by him; it is not as though he is decked out in his performance clothes and makeup.

One of the boys presses a freckled hand by Dick's head. There is an unpleasant, anticipatory smile on his face, and his pale blue eyes gleam. "Why do your people steal?" he asks conversationally.

Dick thinks of his father, of his refined, confident manner, of his Romani chib and his French. Of how he hated to be late and got angry when his mother stayed to brush her hair before a show. Of how he liked peaches but turned his nose up at apples. He is tired. He sighs. "I don't know. Why do yours murder schoolchildren?"

Later, when Bruce sees Dick's black eye (the same one that had been swollen shut the night he ran away from the youth centre), a strange expression passes over his face. Dick almost thinks he catches anger in that perpetually frivolous gaze. Then it is gone, as a sailing cloud. "Say," Bruce drawls, and his grin is misshapen and horrible, "how'd you get that shiner? A little roughhousing with the boys at school?"

Dick does not know what 'shiner' or 'roughhousing' mean, but he can guess. Shame and embarrassment wash over him and he averts his gaze. How can he explain? He does not want to recount it. (Parts of the fight come back to him unbidden. Words that he knows, others that he doesn't. _Half-breed_ – that was a new one. How did they even know? Is it that obvious? Did someone tell them?)

"Dick?" says Bruce, hunkering down, and this, this is the closest they have ever been. It feels as though this is the first time Bruce is looking at him – his eyes are usually fixed on some faraway elsewhere. "Chum, you gotta let me know if those kids were playing fair." He puts one massive hand on Dick's shoulder, and Dick feels through the fabric of his shirt that it is even rougher, more callused than Daniel Poteet's. It confuses him, vaguely. Rich men do not have hands like that.

The next moment he is enveloped in a hug, and it is so unexpected he gasps. His mouth is pressed up against Bruce's shoulder; he can smell his astringent cologne. _Don't_ , he wants to say, panicked. _I don't know you. You don't care about me. No one here does._

But it has been a long time since anyone has touched him without meaning to hit him. He closes his eyes and lets out a sound, a strange animal whine that he cannot believe is coming from his own throat, and wraps his arms around Bruce's neck.

***

Alfred suggests _My Fair Lady_ for movie night.

It is something they do now. Bruce, from being little more than a phantom presence, has become a fixture in Dick's mornings and evenings. He is...weird. Awkward and stiff and fumbling in a way that Dick is unused to. Occasionally, Dick's English fails him, but Bruce's French is perfect, so they understand each other (as much as they can), yet their conversations are stilted, like they both speak the language brokenly.

They sit on the sofa, all three of them, and Dick gets the feeling that he is expected to think of this movie in a certain way. It is not the English – there are French subtitles. He watches as Eliza struggles to speak in the manner Higgins wants her to, watches as her mouth and tongue begin to form the words the right way, coltish and unsure. Watches as they burst into song, all three of them, two wealthy men and one working-class woman wrapped up in lace and cotton.

"The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain," she says. Perfect pronunciation, according to Higgins. Dick does not see the relevance. English is not even a phonetic language, so how can there be a single correct pronunciation? Supposedly, Eliza is joyous.

She does not look joyous to Dick. She looks uncomfortable, her smile frozen in a rictus. When she sings, "In Spain, in Spain," it sounds like, "In pain, in pain." Dick knows he should be amused, or impressed, or happy for Eliza, that her language finally suits the clean white clothes she has been bestowed with. Instead he can only think, _Why would you make her do that?_ Alfred is laughing and Bruce is tapping his foot to the music.

Dick tunes it out and settles into the sofa. What does he know? English is not his first language. It is not even his second.

***

When he became Robin, Dick had made the decision to fake a Gotham accent while on patrol – coupled with his skin, he had told Bruce, it would otherwise broadcast their identities to the world. Gotham was not known for a thriving minority population. While Dick had simply not liked the idea, Bruce looked like was sucking on a lemon every time it was brought up.

Dick does not understand why until Damian does the same thing.

"Dami," he tries to reason, while Damian pulls on his boots, "this is unnecessary. Gotham isn't what it used to be nineteen years ago. I was...it was _obvious_ , with me."

Damian stands up. "It's obvious now too," he says in a bored monotone. "And I can do without the jeering."

Dick cringes. A week ago, they had stopped a mugging while in civilian clothes, and as Damian told them to give the old lady back her purse, one of them said with a grin, "What's that? I don't understand Arabian." If Dick did not stop Damian from slamming a knee into the man's groin, he can perhaps be forgiven.

"All right," Dick says at length. He slaps his thighs and jumps up with a cheer he does not feel. "Let's get this show on the road."

***

Dick, over the years, has gotten good at pretending to listen to people at charity galas – some of them are too self-important to realise that they are not being interrupted with the polite questions that indicate their partner is actually paying attention. Bruce has told him that this is not a good tactic; Dick has replied with shrugs.

"Where were your folks from?" says the man. Hans. Slicked-back, dark blond hair. Director of a company that sells medical instruments. He has been chatting away for the past fifteen minutes.

Dick zones back in. He had been thinking about the patrol last night, how he and Damian could have communicated better, how he could have been less of a pain to the GCPD. "Oh, uh. I wasn't born here. Our circus mostly toured France and other European countries. Sometimes West Asia. America was a one-off." _Gotham?_ he recalls a knife-thrower – his babysitter, Laila or Leela – rolling her eyes and saying. _Do they want people to come and attack us?_ It had been an overcast day, the ground blanketed in uneven, dirt-specked snow. Somebody was singing, off-tune, in a language Dick cannot remember.

 _Haly wants to get rid of all of us,_ his father had joked. _Then he can retire in peace._ Or maybe he'd said, _Then we can rest in peace_.

"You're lucky to be here," Hans says, raising a finger at him as though lecturing an ungrateful child.

Dick is distracted, half by dim memories of a show in Ankara – his family's last successful one – and half by Damian by the buffet, attempting to escape from a couple of elderly women fussing over him and pulling his cheeks. "What do you mean?" Dick says, focusing on Hans so as to not appear rude. If the man wants a conversation, Dick can't very well express his preference for having his own kneecaps broken.

"That you were stranded in America and not some third-world country where you'd have been sold into sex slavery."

The world slows down. Dick blinks, replaying the words in his head, wondering if he heard right. It is like being eight again, numb and dazed after the shock of watching the ropes snap. He wants to say, _An American murdered my parents_. He wants to say, _I was beaten up in an American youth centre before I even knew what a funeral looked like_. He wants to say, _I'd have been dead if it weren't for the random charity of a rich man_. He wants to say, _You can't imagine. You can't **imagine**_. He wants to take Hans' neck in his hands and wring the lies out of him like sewage water from a rag.

"Oh, come on, you know it's true," says Hans with a wry smile, lifting his whiskey to his lips. Something must have shown on Dick's face. "I'm not really one for all this PC nonsense. The truth is the truth."

Dick makes himself smile. This is Bruce's charity gala. He cannot chase off one of the richest men here; someone else will suffer for it. "Fair enough," he says in the most amicable tone he can muster. It is like chewing on rocks. "Excuse me." He had been planning to go rescue Damian, but now he heads to the bathroom, splashes freezing water on his face. Breathes. Breathes. Breathes.

***

In his dream, Dick is bathing Zitka, his bare toes curling in the dirt. She is coiling her trunk around him and dripping water all over his clothes, and he is annoyed but also endeared. He loves her. He tells her this. His father walks up to him and says something, but it is gibberish, so Dick asks him to repeat himself.

His father shakes his head, raises his brows, as though he is about to complain. He says something in Romani chib, gesticulating impatiently. Dick cannot understand him, though he should be able to – he _knows_ Romani chib. At least, he knows the basics; he's forgotten a lot of it. _What did you say?_ he shouts, in English, hands cupping his ears, like they are in a fish market.

His father talks again.

 _I can't understand_ , Dick says, desperate now. _I can't understand. Dad. What's wrong? How can I help?_

***

It is one of their rare days off, and they are lounging in one of the studies. Dick is curled on the couch with a cup of coffee and his battered copy of _Robin Hood_ , and Damian is sketching, lines swooping across his pad till they form the shapes of Thomas and Martha Wayne's gravestones. There is a thoughtful little furrow in Damian's brow, and Dick knows by now that it heralds Damian being unusually open and talkative.

Eventually Damian puts down his sketchbook, he steeples his fingers and rests his chin on them. "I'm not really American," he says.

"What?" Dick closes his book. How long has Damian been thinking about this? "That's ridiculous. You're an American citizen." A part of him already knows he is misunderstanding.

Damian slants him an unimpressed look. "Yes, a citizen. I'm not from here. I don't think or act like people brought up here. I get told to tone down my accent. It gets called ugly. Don't act like you don't know." He puts his chin on his knees, scowls. "I want to distance myself from Talia, because of the League, but it feels like other people do it _for_ me, for...different reasons. They don't even want to say I look like her. They're so _desperate_ for me to look like Father."

Dick has noticed. There is a lot of Bruce in him, but there's a noticeable amount of Talia too – the skin tone, the colour of the eyes, the slant of the nose, the unruly hair he tries to tame with gel. He's seen people tiptoe around it, saying with forced cheer, _You're like a mini Bruce_ , the subject of Talia heavy and unspoken.

Damian carries on, exasperated, as Dick takes a sip of tepid coffee. "I get asked the _weirdest_ questions. The school took us to a fair and this girl asked if I knew what candy floss was."

Dick chokes on his drink, then snorts it through his nose. He gropes for a tissue, trying to keep the coffee from dripping all over the floor.

"No, no, we don't have candy floss in Pakistan," Damian says mockingly, looking heavenward and gesturing with his hands. "Please, tell me what this magical, sweet pink cloud is. Your bazaar is fascinating. I will speak of this to the sultan and he will gift me blushing virgins."

Dick _guffaws_. It hurts. There are tears in his eyes. He slides off the couch onto the ground, trying to breathe. He hasn't laughed this hard in years.

Damian takes no pity on him. He stands up, gives an ingratiating smile, and bows with a flourish. "The sparkling first world is indeed bountiful in wonders! I wish a thousand sons upon you. _Haramkhor_."

Dick wheezes, clutching his stomach and rolling around on the floor. He knows that word. He's too busy trying not to die to tell Damian to mind his language. Oh God, he knew the brat was his favourite for a reason. He does not like admitting it, but he's always had a soft spot for Damian; the boy had been _his_ Robin, and he'd watched him change and grow, watched him open up and let himself be vulnerable for once in his life.

"Aw, Dami," Dick manages, wiping tears from his face. He grabs Damian by the wrists and hauls him half on top of him. Damian yelps, but doesn't put up much of a struggle. "I adore you. That was priceless. And now you're gonna tell me who called your accent ugly so I can – "

"You know you can't do anything," says Damian with a wry smile.

"Just scare them a little."

Damian frowns. "As Nightwing?"

Dick pulls him closer, nuzzles into his hair. "As your big brother."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even beneath the cowl, Batman’s expression is astonished and hurt, and he looks young, for once, in all the wrong ways. _Welcome to fatherhood_ , thinks Jim, droll, taking out a cigarette and firing it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I figured I was finished. Sneaking off without telling him – he was probably going to toss me out on my green behind. I mean, what did he owe me? Just a fluke, I thought, that he took me in in the first place. Probably been waiting for the chance to just dump me.” 
> 
> – Dick Grayson, about Bruce, _Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight, #149_
> 
> This fic is set a couple of months into Robin’s career.

Dick’s grapple gun is lost, and trying to prove his independence by patrolling alone against Bruce’s orders no longer seems exciting or brave. Gotham’s alien skyscrapers loom above him, the glare of the few lit windows hostile and cold; there aren’t even any stray cats in this godforsaken part of town.

Something rises in Dick, an instinctive, desperate urge to howl as loudly as he can, and he has to hunker down, wrap his arms around his waist and rock himself to stop it. He can’t suppress it all; a thin, animal whine escapes his throat, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

He wants his mother, even if it is only for her to grow angry at his recklessness.

He wants his father, even if it is only for him to grip his shoulders, chastise him and say, _Te aves yertime mander tai te yertil tut o Del._

(Dick thinks, secretly and with a touch of guilt, that God’s forgiveness won’t matter in the face of Bruce’s wrath.)

His limbs are locked in place, as though the blood in his veins has hardened, like resin. The world is narrowing down to the sound of his breath in this dank, rubbish-strewn alley and his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.

Bruce will not want him anymore. He’d said himself, _I won’t be a father_ , and Dick had known it would only be a matter of time before he was banished back to the youth centre, where a group of boys had dragged him out of bed, pushed him to his knees and told him to...to…

( _You people steal from good, honest folk, right?_ Laughs. Jeers. _Consider this your payment._ )

It does not matter. Nothing happened. The guards had intervened.

( _And if they don’t intervene next time?_ a voice in Dick’s head hisses. _Who will hear you screaming? Not Bruce Wayne_.)

He puts his head against his knees and stuffs his fist into his mouth, bites till he can feel the sting through his glove.

He is too frightened to cry.

***

Jim has left work – the last out, again – and is about to unlock his car (parked ten minutes away from his office thanks to the joy of overcrowded parking spaces), when he catches a splash of colour against Gotham’s gloomy grey.

Robin – it has to be Robin, no one else goes out dressed as a traffic light – is curled into a ball on the ground by a dumpster, a tuft of black hair protruding from his canary yellow cape. Jim’s first thought is, _What in the hell?_ and his second is, _Where’s the damn Batman?_ Even as he hustles towards him, fury begins to bubble in his chest. He had warned Batman. He had told him that if anything happened to the boy, it would not matter what history they shared – they would be enemies. What did Batman think he was doing, letting the child in his care walk the streets of Gotham alone?

“Robin?” murmurs Jim, bending at the waist.

Robin looks up, face haggard and eyes wide as dinner plates. Up close, Jim realises he cannot be more than nine years old. _Christ Almighty._ “Are you all right?”

A nod.

“Okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Can you stand?”

Another nod. Robin gets up on trembling legs – and his knees buckle. Jim catches him and hefts him into his arms with a grunt – the kid is _heavy_ , despite how scrawny he is. Robin lets out a little whine, and mutters something in a language Jim does not understand. It’s not Spanish, and it’s not French – it’s not anything Jim has heard before.

In hindsight, the couple of times they had met, Jim cannot remember the boy speaking at all. Batman did the talking, his diminutive shadow standing still and attentive at his side. Obviously, Robin understands English. How well is another matter.

Jim drops it. For now, it isn’t important.

He takes Robin back to the GCPD and settles him into one of the hideous plastic chairs in the waiting area, where he curls up again and wraps his cape around himself, sniffling. There is a flash of dinosaur Band-Aids on his knees. It is jarring, something so normal on such an unusual child, like he’d been playing soccer with his school friends earlier that day.

Does Robin even _go_ to school?

Shaking his head – he can think about these things later – Jim goes to the vending machine and rummages through his pockets, then his wallet, before digging out a few quarters. He turns to Robin and says, “Do you like sweets?”

Watery eyes rise to meet his, and Robin gives a jerky nod. Despite himself, Jim swallows a laugh. “Are you _allowed_ them?” he asks, because he’s not sure if Robin will understand the word “allergic”; if he’s not allowed something, it’s probably for a good reason.

Robin nods again, and Jim punches the button for a packet of sugar-coated gummy worms – he’s not going to risk anything with nuts or milk in it. He grabs the candy and a bottle of water and goes over to Robin, handing him both. Robin guzzles the water first, then tears open the packet with his teeth, but does not wolf the gummies down, opting for little nibbles, like he is using it to control his anxiety.

Once he’s had his fill, Gordon wraps him in an emergency blanket and guides him up to the roof, where he switches on the Bat Signal, aware of how _ridiculous_ the situation is. He’s waiting with a lost boy for his parent, except the boy is a fresh green vigilante and his parent is the city’s mysterious, ubiquitous, and grim protector who dresses as a giant bat and refuses to give Jim his phone number or house address.

Robin is jammed against his side, a bit of sugar smeared on the corner of his mouth, biting his knuckles, his eyes wide and unseeing. Jim gives him a brief side hug, just to test the waters, and Robin burrows even closer to him, sticking his nose in Jim’s overcoat, his arms going round him. Jesus, the kid is needy. Jim wonders, for the hundredth time, where Batman even found him.

It takes twenty minutes for a shadowy figure to land silently on the roof. By then, Jim is nearly apoplectic, only reigning in his annoyance because of the trembling thing latched onto his arm. “Take care of your damn kid,” he growls, glaring at Batman and valiantly stopping himself from punching him right in the jaw.

Batman ignores him with his typical lack of respect for social protocol. “Robin,” he says, stern and beneath that, relieved. 

Robin clutches at Jim, his breathing growing erratic.

Jim’s blood turns to ice. He casts an incredulous look at Batman. “What did you do to him?” he snaps. He’d never thought...he’d never even _considered_ that Batman would resort to hurting children. It was like entertaining the idea of the sun rising in the west.

Batman jerks back. “What?”

“He’s terrified of you!” Jim is ready to interrogate him and call child services, his hand groping in his pocket for his phone.

Robin bursts into tears, and Jim and Batman stare at him, alarmed.

“Robin,” says Batman again, coming forward to crouch in front of him. Jim is so surprised he does not move aside. “What is it, son?” He fishes out a handkerchief from his utility belt and dabs Robin’s face with it. His tone is gentle, gentler than anything Jim has heard from him, and Jim cannot remember the last time Batman spoke without rumbling. This is almost a _croon_ and it throws Jim off balance. “Why did you run off, huh? I told you to stay in bed.”

Robin hiccups, tears still dribbling down his splotchy cheeks. He stutters out a string of garbled foreign words, realises what he is doing, and switches to English. “Y - you don’t w - want me,” he burbles, between great gulping sobs, with the kind of conviction only children can manage, and bows his head, shaking.

Well. Ignoring the whole Robin shtick, at least now Jim is relatively certain that Batman isn’t a child abuser. Jim has similar arguments with his kids (except the accusation is some variant of “You don’t want to spend time with us!”), and they are unpleasant, but...normal. As unfortunate as that is.

Even beneath the cowl, Batman’s expression is astonished and hurt, and he looks young, for once, in all the wrong ways. _Welcome to fatherhood_ , thinks Jim, droll, taking out a cigarette and firing it up.

“Chum,” Batman says, pulling Robin to his chest and folding his cape around him, “how could you think that? I…” He seems to remember that Jim is still standing there, and stops. Sighing, he removes the blanket and lifts Robin into his arms, and Robin goes easily, quieting. He is cartoonishly tiny against Batman’s imposing bulk. “Okay, pup,” Batman says, “we’re going to talk about this tomorrow. For now, let’s get you into bed.” He turns to Jim, face a blank mask once more. “Thank you,” he says, handing Jim back the blanket.

Jim grunts, pacified only somewhat by the scene. “I see that boy without you again, you’re never getting any cooperation from the GCPD for your cases.”

Batman turns away. With an arm locked around Robin, he fires his grapple gun. Robin gazes at Jim with red-rimmed eyes and gives a weak wave, and then they are swinging away. Moments later, there is a screech of tyres, and then silence.

A faint gust of wind plays with the edges of Jim’s coat. _This city is my first love_ , he remembers Batman saying, back in the early days, when he smiled more. Jim glances up, and above the weirduglyglorious brutalist-Gothic architecture the stars are shrouded by pollution. Gotham looks as it always did, a great, hulking monster disinclined to heal its rotten core; there is nothing to show that the earth has shifted beneath it.

Jim drops his cigarette and crushes it beneath his boot, and wonders if Batman has realised his first love has changed.

-end-

End notes:

  1. Yes, Bruce actually tells Dick he won’t be a father, in _Batman:_ _Legends of the Dark Knight, #100_. At least Alfred knows he’s bullshitting.


  1. _Te aves yertime mander tai te yertil tut o Del –_ "I forgive you and may God forgive you as I do." Dick's father says it to him in _The Titans, #16._



I’m not Romani, so if I misused that line, please let me know and I’ll delete or change it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Jason Todd was the first Robin. Dick Grayson has recently replaced him as the second. 
> 
> Tumblr shenanigans ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All user names were created on the spot, and if you see one you recognise, it’s pure coincidence.

**robinshood**

So they replaced jason with a kid whose background is a literal carbon copy of bruce’s smh @dc get ur shit together

**robinshood**

This is such lazy writing. How to make sure batman and robin get along? Give them the same backstory!

**vanilla-cupcakess**

istg either give batman a partner who is a separate individual or dont give him one at all!!

1,967 notes

***

**maximorffwanda**

I never hated Dick Grayson, but something about him always bugged me.

I recently realized what.

Jason Todd lived on the streets and went hungry and was probably sexually abused (and could easily be mixed race, which adds a whole new dynamic to that). He had an addict mother and an absent father. Bruce found him living alone in a crappy apartment with no bed. His transition from that to Robin wasn’t ‘pretty’ - he was angry and hurting (rightfully so), and he worked hard for a great character arc which paid off.

Dick Grayson is pretty much the poster boy for a clean, pretty rags to riches story (seriously, a white circus kid with loving parents?) which Jason never was.

It’s not that Dick isn’t brave or competent - it’s that after Jason, he seems bland and socially unimportant. And there’s no room for a character arc, because nothing needs to change.

**shoehornedcliff**

THIS THIS THIS!!

573 notes

***

**doorknob-brass**

Jason Todd: *lived on the streets alone with no support from his parents till the age of 12* *is representative of the kind of squalor so many kids are forced to live in* *is exactly the kind of kid batman always tries to save* *actually makes sense as robin, especially as a contrast to billionaire bruce wayne*

Dick Grayson: *is a circus brat* *literally nothing else*

#he has no relevance as robin oh my god just kill him already

1,672 notes

***

**blueberrycupcake**

Unpopular opinion:

Dick Grayson is a good character and the fact that he is not Jason Todd doesn’t make him boring.

**switchbladez**

yeah but he doesn’t have to be a whiny little white boy either

**blueberrycupcake**

I hate to break this to you but Jason Todd is also a whiny little white boy.

**switchbladez**

he has an actual reason to be whiny. dick just wants attention.

**blueberrycupcake**

This just in: an eight year old crying because his parents were murdered in front of him just wants attention.

#tumblr and its oppression olympics jesus christ

794 notes

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**yewtreegrave**

jason todd when batman is under influence: okay, let’s just gently slap him a few times to snap him out of it.

dick grayson when batman is under influence: kick that bitch in the head. knock him unconscious.

#this kid has no fucks to give i love him #batman 465 #kat reads dc

2,086 notes

***

**kibblekitties**

anyway both jason todd and dick grayson hold an immense place in bruce’s heart and dick has established himself as a great robin thanks for coming to my ted talk

**tiddies-out28**

dick grayson should have died in that poll

**kibblekitties**

hey op you know what’s the same about what you said and the statement ‘the earth is flat’?

They’re both false

341 notes

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**salvadordahlia**

dick grayson has punched/kicked/knocked out batman more times in three years than jason todd did in his whole robin career and y’all still wanna call dick a goody two shoes lol bye

1,982 notes

***

**spirited-up-and-away**

why does dick grayson have such anger issues...like kid...calm down…

**thedragonprincess**

he doesn’t have ‘anger issues’ any more than bruce or jason, he’s just consistently more cheerful and punny so when he does get angry it’s a lot more noticeable

#dick is fundamentally not an angry person and getting angry on occasion like a normal human being does not negate that #c: dick grayson #also dick and jason are NOT similar #i’ve seen that argument a lot and i disagree #jason has a lot of justified anger simmering beneath the surface bc of his background #he wants to rid gotham of the kind of people who hurt kids and women and minorities #he doesnt have outbursts so much as murderous plans #dick is mostly a chill guy and occasionally blows up #their brands of anger are totally different #rant over

528 notes

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**itsfreerealestate**

Y’all: Dick Grayson wouldn’t punch Nazis

Sorry but canon Romani Dick Grayson absolutely would

**geographicworld**

And canon nazi killer jason todd would help

#though tbh jason would just obliterate them

2,076 notes

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**loudbristolian**

Am i the only person who finds the relationship between bruce and dick slightly creepy.

**jaded-batgirl**

idk what context you’re referring to but yes. all that touching and weirdly open declarations of love and worry (which isnt like bruce at all tbh).

**loudbristolian**

It’s like they’re obsessed with each other?? Like that time dick said he wants to punch people just for thinking bad thoughts about bruce? WTF?

21 notes

#this is why i dont like their relationship #even when it’s not creepy it’s unhealthy #they are way too obsessed with each other #ew ew ew #this is why i prefer jason #they were like actual father and son #dick’s relationship with bruce is just weird and gross

***

**yewtreegrave**

so @dc how come dick hasnt been adopted yet its been like 6 years

**yewtreegrave**

ok lol just read this week’s issue in which dick is dosed with fear gas and he’s literally curled up on the floor crying because he thinks he isnt worthy of bruce im gonna go jump in lava now

#please let this child rest #please give him a legal father

261 notes

***

**robinshood**

I hate how jason and bruce used to be so close (like literally jason brought light back into bruce’s life) and now they’re estranged because their beliefs on justice differ. dc doesnt have to shit on jason’s relationship with bruce to make dick seem important but they seem bent on doing just that

#@dick grayson fans dont interact #this is a jason todd appreciation blog #i didnt like dick when he was introduced and i dont like him now #he’s so boring

178 notes

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**iphoneuphone**

I like dick but i also kinda wish they handnt aged up jason and let him go bc a bunch of conservatives started screaming ‘gay’ at batman and robin. I really liked the whole rich hero/poor sidekick dynamic and while dick was never rich or even middle class his financial background doesnt seem to have affected his worldview much

#like i know jason wasnt technically poor after being adopted by bruce but it’s like he says #you cant take the streets out of the boy #i adored that relationship #jason viewed crime differently than bruce and it made it super interesting

165 notes

***

**insertnormaltext**

I hate how some people think Dick and Bruce stick together so consistently because the writers got lazy or something, like there isn’t a good reason Dick tends to have a better relationship with Bruce than others do.

Dick puts a ton of effort into his relationship with Bruce, to the point that it sometimes gets unreasonable. Even when Bruce acts like an asshole, Dick forgives him and tries to work through it. He puts up with _so much shit_ for the sake of their relationship and stays by Bruce’s side where others would (rightfully) leave or give up.

It’s not _easy_ for Dick. It’s just that his relationship with Bruce is more important to him than _any_ kind of fight, so he pushes through it even when it’s not good for him.

#great now i’m reminded of how needy and clingy dick really is #i totally understand why jason left #bruce can be a total jerkface and jason has never taken that kind of behaviour lying down #i mean it’s not like dick just takes it #he screams and argues and physically fights #but then he comes back to bruce #because he’s insecure or loves him too much or idk some fucked up dynamic im too tired to analyse rn

3,008 notes

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**hireasamurai**

DC WHAT THE HELLLLLLL

#pls fire collins omg #wednesday spoilers

547 notes

***

**glasshardsandocean**

You know i thought jason’s exit from robin was abrupt and messy but i read this week’s issue in which dick was fired for being shot in the shoulder and…

Wtf

**glasshardsandocean**

I cannot...believe…

**glasshardsandocean**

So what are they gonna do now...batman comics cant survive without robin...are they gonna bring in babs or carrie kelley

#wednesday spoilers #what the fuckkkkkk #if theyre gonna get a new robin it better be carrie

56 notes

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**yewtreegrave**

I’m starting to think it’s becoming a tradition that no one leaves the robin mantle peacefully...this job is fucking cursed

#i’m really sad to see dick fired from robin but at least he’s with the titans??

267 notes

***

**muchobligedjeeves**

I hope Jason and Dick team up and kick Bruce’s ass.

#@dc go fuck yourselves

431 notes

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**mangoslices**

GUYS! GUYS!!

CARRIE KELLEY IS CONFIRMED TO BE THE NEW ROBIN!!

**littlesparklymen**

OMG??

**grandelio**

OKAY I WAS SAD ABOUT DICK AND I’M STILL SAD BUT NOW I AM ALSO EXCITED ABOUT CARRIE! <3

#THIS IS THE ONLY NEW ROBIN I WILL ACCEPT

5,673 notes

***

**bluebeetlejuice**

i imagine after Problem Children dick and jason bruce will be literally crying over how easy it is to handle carrie

895 notes

***

**littlesparklymen**

Carrie: hey i could use some mentorship :) got any tips?

Dick and Jason: *grin at each other*

Bruce, in the background: OH NO YOU LIL SHI –

672 notes

-end-


End file.
